


Past

by narsus



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is no longer the person he once was and he has no desire to ever go back.</p>
<p>Can be read as a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/243033">Forward Planning</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure belongs to John Finnemore and BBC Radio 4.

It’s not often that they argue. Even after three years of marriage when the honeymoon glow has definitely worn off. Mostly, they have minor disagreements, that are easily laughed off. Douglas’ inability to do any DIY is an adorable foible. Martin’s penchant for cheap beer and putting his feet on the coffee table is a mere character quirk. They agree about the important things. Everything else is just details. Which is why Martin can’t quite understand how this morning had managed to get so out of hand. He can’t even remember what they were arguing about, only that he’d cursed at Douglas, grabbed his coat and stormed out.

Which is why he’s now sitting in his car, with the aircon cranked up, even though he’s got a window open, smoking, while he’s sat in gridlocked traffic. The jeering of a pair of white van men, who manage to edge past him in the other lane, doesn’t help matters. Of course he probably looks a sight. He’d had to pull over onto the hard shoulder earlier to indulge in a hysterical fit of frustrated, and angry, tears so he’s pretty certain that his face is still red and his eyes puffy. It’s not a good look. Compounded by the fact that he’s looking like a miserable, overdressed, wreck, in a sports car, it’s pretty obvious why the white van men have something to laugh at. Granted, it’s a second hand, XK convertible, that he’d argued with Douglas about buying, but it’s his, and if he wants to go driving around in a fuel-guzzling, automatic, that’s his business. The purchase was a concession to his ego. He’s got the money, these days, to afford the occasional nice thing just for himself, and since Douglas had already bought him a watch, he’d settled on a car as his treat for himself. He can also admit that, secretly, this is the trip that he’s always imagined taking in a flashy car, wearing a watch that costs more than his sister’s annual salary, wearing a jacket that could pay for a week of meals at his mum’s house. He’s always wanted, deep down, to find an excuse to go back, to show off, to prove to them all that they were wrong and that he’s made it. He just hadn’t expected an explosive fight with his spouse to be the catalyst.

The traffic inches along and by the time he gets out of the mess of central Bristol he’s seriously contemplating just going home and apologising. He’s not entirely sure what for, because Douglas certainly did some yelling too, but the mess is just as much Martin’s fault as anybody else’s and he just wants to go home. But he’s come this far, and the SatNav is steadily guiding him towards his mum’s house, while the traffic eases up around him. The turnings take him away from the central dual carriageways where the M32 seems to unceremoniously dump the traffic. The buildings change from the tall city centre structures, falling away into older housing, then turning into the sort of housing that shows the marks of time in the way that only the houses of the less affluent can. For a moment Martin can almost feel his lip curl at the surroundings with a snobbery that success has bred insidiously. He can feel his features framing themselves into the same expression that he and his friends wear when the full force of their group arrogance comes to the fore. It’s not a pretty sight and while he knows, intellectually, that it’s awful behaviour, he doesn’t have much compulsion to stop it. He’s spent a lifetime being mocked for not fitting in, but the minute he could, he gladly fell into line.

It doesn’t matter which of the run-down houses belongs to his mum. He suddenly knows that he’s not going to stop. He doesn’t fit in anymore. If he ever did. He taps the screen and sets his course for home, accelerating, unnecessarily, round a sharp bend as if to prove a point to himself. He has escaped that all. He’s not the person he once was, and integrity, or goodness, or whatever anyone wants to call it, doesn’t mean a thing. He just doesn’t fit. He can’t go back and brag about his achievements because they never meant anything to his family at all. In the same way that he can’t explain to his family of choice how he once lived. It’s all so different that none of it would make sense to anyone.

He’s almost home when the enormity of it finally hits him. It’s enough to make him pull over into a lay-by, on a quiet country lane, and rest his forehead against the steering wheel just to make the world stop spinning. He has succeeded. He’s achieved everything that he thought he ever wanted and now he’s not sure if the person he once was would have wanted it at all. Not that he’s the same person at all. Not anymore. He’s not the push-over he once was but he’s also, most distinctly, not a nice man. He’s a terrible person who sneers at those less fortunate than himself. His past self would have been horrified. His past self wouldn’t have known the difference between a Barbour jacket and one he could have picked up in Primark. He wouldn’t have cared. Now it all matters, all the details, all the trappings, that indicate that he’s moving in a higher tax bracket. And he’s not even sure that he cares that he probably ought to feel bad about that.

He picks up his phone on instinct when it rings.  
“Come home, you foolish boy.”  
“Douglas?”  
“Were you, perhaps, expecting someone else to ring you with that declaration?”  
Martin can’t help laughing a little.  
“I… may have said something things that were unwarranted so… please come home.”  
“Alright. I… I said some crappy things too.”  
“I know that. Just come home, dear.”  
“OK. I was going to anyway.”  
“Were you- Oh, Martin, don’t tell me that gas guzzling monstrosity has run out on you?” Douglas is clearly laughing.  
“It hasn’t! What do you mean ‘monstrosity’!”  
“And in such a strange shade of-“  
“It’s ‘British Racing Green’ I’ll have you know!”  
“You could at least have bought the coupe-“  
“Douglas!”  
“Would you like lasagne or spatchcock chicken for dinner, dear?”  
“Oh, ah, you haven’t made lasagne in ages…”  
“Consider it done. I’ll see you soon, love.”

And just like that, the small, nagging voice in his head that suggests, that perhaps, just perhaps, it has all gone horribly wrong, is silenced. He’s succeeded beyond his wildest dreams and that’s all that matters. He is no longer the person he once was and he has no desire to ever go back.


End file.
